


My heart comes cowering to love

by amorremanet



Series: The children you thought you had lost [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abortion, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Trans, Angst, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Drama, Ficlet Collection, Gift Giving, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mpreg, Suicidal Thoughts, Terminated Pregnancy, The Author Regrets Nothing, Therapy, Trans Character, Unplanned Pregnancy, pro choice, the author is well and truly sick of defending her choice here, this fic ends in with an abortion; not a baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 00:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I know that you want a family, Dean, and I want to have one with you as well. But not now, and not like this."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fifteen weeks, 1.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally started for the hc_bingo prompt, "difficult pregnancy," but I didn't finish it in time for round three. Other prompts used here are: "black and white" for 52_challenge and, "defiant" for 100 prompts.

"All I'm saying, Cas—all I've ever been saying—is that this doesn't have to be all bad, does it? Like, maybe there are a few good things to the whole situation that you're not really considering here? I mean, Doc, do I have a point or what?"

Doctor Hurley's office has never felt so cold, so aching around Cas. Even with the antiseptic yellow wallpaper and the air of the clinic, it's never been this bad. Usually, it's one of his safe places—one of the few spaces in the world where he's ever felt like he can really air the grievances that he carries around his chest—but now, breathing deeply and looking over at Dean, Cas can find his lips and teeth and tongue, but not the words for what he's feeling.

How can he really say everything that's going on inside him when he doesn't even fully understand it? His chest burns indignantly—one clear thought emerges in a mess of wordless nonsense: _how can you even look at me and say something like that? have you even been around me for the past several weeks?_ —and his stomach churns with anger, which is at least something other than the ever-present nausea, Cas supposes. But still, nothing's really coming together into something Cas can coherently express. Nothing's really turning into more than the untranslatable.

And the worst part of everything is Dean. Dean, looking back at Cas so earnestly, brow knotted in confusion over things that he doesn't really understand—can never fully understand, at that, because he's cis and that means that there are some things Cas experiences that Dean doesn't have access to—and lips set in a tight line. The worst part is Dean and how he's trying so hard to find a bright side in this mess of shit that they've found themselves in, trying so hard just to believe in Cas as though that belief can really contradict reality, can really make it so any of this gets any better.

And even as he digs his nails into his thigh, even as he rubs his own lips together and stares down at Doctor Hurley's desk, Cas wants so badly for Dean's vision of things to be the one that wins out. He wants to be as strong as Dean thinks he is, as invincible and as able to handle this pregnancy as Dean wants him to be.

But, on the other hand—"Please, Dean, tell me where the positive aspects of this are supposed to be. Because I can't see them. I've tried to see them—and you, of all people, ought to know that I've _tried_ —but forgive me, because I just don't see how or where I'm supposed to be _happy_ about any of this."

Cas rolls his eyes so hard that they almost fall out of his skull when Dean insists, "But we could have a family, Cas. You and me. And without having to go through all the shit we'd have to do for an adoption. And maybe money would be an issue, but we could make something work, you know? We've gone through shit that's as bad as this before and we can do it again, right?"

"Wrong," Cas says without even pausing to consider other responses, only taking Dean's wobbling, dewy-eyed facial expression into account after he's said this and Dean's face has gotten worse. "I know that you want a family, Dean, and I want to have one with you as well. But not now, and not like this. We've proven that we can make things up as we go, yes, but this is _not_ a situation that I'm comfortable with just continuing. You know that. I've told you that so many times by now. And this is not a matter of family or no family—"

"Maybe it is to me, did you ever think of that? I mean, what if we don't get another chance at this? What if adoption never happens—"

"This is _not_. a matter. of family. or no family," Cas says again and even through his denim, feels his nails scraping into his skin. "It's a matter of my body, and my bodily autonomy, and my being allowed to make my own decisions about what to do with my body. And, Dean…" Cas sighs more than he means to do, hangs his head and rubs hard at the bridge of his nose. "Dean, I need you to stand with me on this. I need you to support me… Doctor Hurley, please, tell him that he's approaching this matter in entirely the wrong way?"

That's really the only reason why Dean's at therapy with Cas in the first place: so Cas can get some kind of support on the issue of how Dean hasn't been handling any of this well at all.

But all Doctor Hurley does is tuck a lock of dark brown hair behind her ear and fold her large, delicate hands on her desk. She scoots her chair closer and leans toward them, and after a moment of just watching Dean and Cas, she says, "I think what both of you need to do, in this instance and during the rest of this ordeal, is resolve to communicate more openly with each other. This might be asking a lot of both of you, but it's going to be for the better, in the long run. Cas, for instance: instead of trying to have me intervene in your relationship, I want you to try telling Dean what's going on inside your head right now."

She pauses, for just a moment, and leans closer to him still. "What are you thinking about how Dean's handled this? And more importantly, what are you feeling?"

Groaning, Cas slouches back in his chair. Immediately, he wants to kick himself for doing this. It pushes his belly out more prominently, so that it strains against his t-shirt and pushes the stupid fabric up—but as he yanks on the hem and tries to pull it back into place, he manages to say, "I think that he's handled it terribly, and I think this should be fairly obvious? But I _feel_ …" Cas huffs, rolls his eyes, needs to take a moment just to parse everything out—feelings have no damned right to be this fucking difficult.

Apparently, he's quiet for long enough that Dean decides to chime in, "It's okay, Cas. Seriously. Just let it all out, okay—I can take it."

"Dean, please," Doctor Hurley tells him, holding up a hand as though that might actually keep Dean quiet. "Let him speak on his own time."

"I feel like Dean isn't listening to me. About anything," Cas says, spitting the words out just so Dean can't get it in his head to keep talking when it's explicitly Cas's turn. "I know that there are some things about this that he can never understand. And he knows that, too—he's been… really, exceedingly good about trying to do the right thing without necessarily understanding everything that's going on for me. And I appreciate that, I do, it's just…"

Cas heaves a deep breath and tries to ignore the way his stomach pushes against his shirt all over again. "I suppose I feel like his desire for a family means more to him than the fact that carrying this pregnancy to term could kill me? I know it doesn't make any sense, but—"

"But it's a feeling," Dean says, voice quiet. "It doesn't have to make sense." He pauses and reaches for Cas's hand, doesn't say anything more until Cas laces their fingers together and lets Dean give him a squeeze.

"Since we're airing them and all, I guess I just feel like… like you're trying to do this all on your own? Like you don't remember that there are people here who care about you and want to help—and not just me, but like… okay, the whole dinner with your family thing wasn't a great idea, but… Bela, and Anna, and Rachel all want to help. And Gabriel, too, I guess. And I feel like you're telling all of us to just fuck off and pulling away from us again, and no offense, Cas, but… you pulling away from us doesn't exactly have a good history?"

"I suppose it doesn't." Considering that Cas pulling away from people has usually precipitated disordered eating relapses or suicidal ideation, Cas can't entirely blame Dean for worrying. "For what it's worth, I haven't been consciously trying to pull away. I just _feel_ like there's so much going on and like you don't entirely respect my decision not to have this baby. So… if I need to try harder to be more open with the people in my support network, then I don't feel it's too much to ask that you try harder to more actively support my decision? Don't talk about having a family, don't focus so much on the future, just… help me deal with _this_ problem? The one that's right here in front of us?"

Cas isn't sure what he expects, but his heart still surges with warm relief when Dean nods and says, "Okay. Yeah… that sounds good to me."


	2. Fifteen weeks, 2.

The appointment with Doctor Hurley happens on Monday, and on Tuesday, it's Eating Disorders Anonymous with Meg and Corbett. Vaguely, in the part of his brain that for myriad reasons very much doesn't want to stay in recovery, Cas wishes that he could just quit with EDA and slouch back to doing things by himself. He could handle it, this part tells him—he's handled it fine on his own outside of the whole pregnancy issue. Why couldn't he just go back to doing things alone, the way that he's managed for most of his time in recovery?

Strictly speaking, the answer to that is fairly obvious: he can't go back to doing that because it would allow a relapse to fester and grow and mutate. Doing things on his own is part of what got Cas into this mess of trouble in the first place.

Fortunately, going to meetings again is part of the agreement that he and Dean came to with Doctor Hurley, and at least Cas only has to go once a week. The only positive side to this, at least the only one that makes itself immediately obvious, is that Meg and Corbett understand the value of going to Java Hut after meetings and getting tea. They understand the value of spending recuperative time with friends, instead of with the well-meaning strangers who mostly make up their support group. They understand that Cas needs time with them instead of more time around other people.

"Well, whatever you think about the meetings themselves, Cas, I mean… I just thought it was really brave of you to tell the group about what's going on with you right now? And to just be so blunt and upfront about everything… I thought it was really great, you know? Especially after what your family pulled out on you." Corbett says all of this as though it actually merits some distinction, as though he'd give Cas a medal or something if he could.

Cas, for his own part, just shrugs. "I thought part of the point of group therapy was to be blunt and upfront. Refusing to let anyone get out of talking about their problems, whatever those problems are, and so on, regardless of any problems one's family might cause."

"Doesn't mean I can't think it's great that you were, though, right?" From the armchair he's slouching in, Corbett gives Cas a wobbly smile, then takes a long, deep breath of his spearmint/mate blend. The fact that he's drinking something with yerba mate in it to begin with is noteworthy, since getting Corbett to try anything other than Earl Grey has been an ongoing uphill battle—but Cas can't even celebrate that victory when Corbett has to go and ask, "So do you have a date yet? For the procedure?"

Cas shakes his head and sniffs at his Irish Breakfast, which isn't ready to drink just yet. "We got the runaround from one clinic we tried calling," he explains. "They've kept us going for a week-and-a-half, only for Anna to finally tell us last night that they're a fake clinic. They've probably never actually provided an abortion to anyone. Apparently, she and Yuri and Jo protested there with their pro-choice group a few months ago."

Meg balks, huffs at Cas, and looks up from her phone. The way she's arching her eyebrow at him suggests that she is singularly unimpressed with him. "Oh, wow, the Internet hooked you up with a fake clinic and didn't have the decency to let you know about it?" she says, half-drawling. "Did you two brainiacs even bother Googling them before you called?"

"No, Meg, I didn't. And neither did Dean. Because both of us assumed that a Google search for abortion clinics in the area would be trustworthy enough." Cas sighs and slumps further into his own chair, sets his paper cup on the table that sits between him and Corbett, since his tea isn't ready and there's no sense holding on to it when he's slouching. "When I write a memoir about this entire experience, I'm going to title it, 'Why Dean Winchester And Cassidy Milton Should Never Assume Things Ever,' considering I wouldn't be pregnant in the first place if we hadn't assumed that the commonsense rules about condoms didn't apply to us."

"Yeah, well, at least everybody makes mistakes. And we learn from them, and we grow, and maybe when this is all over and things have calmed down some, it'll be one of those things that just brings you and your boyfriend closer as a couple." Meg shrugs, probably because her emotional investment in Cas's relationship is on the same level as her emotional investment in Cas's library books, which is to say minimal, at best.

Her phone buzzes, but as she goes to look back at it, she pauses, staring in the direction of the door and blinking at something. Cas could turn to look, but instead, he gets caught up in watching Meg, in wondering what on Earth could get her to stop texting her sister like that—especially given that she and Ruby have a, "no ignoring sister-texts after EDA meetings" rule in place. Finally, though, she saves Cas from having to wonder any further and from having to ask her what's going on: brow furrowed, she points at the door and says, "Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't that the little brother who hugs too much and doesn't like wearing pants?"

Cas and Corbett look over to the door in unison, and while Corbett joins Meg in wondering if the chubby young man with the gift basket is, indeed, Valentine, Cas just groans and smacks his head back into the armchair. Which should probably be an answer enough, for all it doesn't stop Corbett from guessing that the young man looks enough like Valentine, but what does he know, since they've only actually met once before. Rolling his eyes, Cas pulls out his own phone—he hasn't gotten any texts or emails, he hasn't missed any calls and he doesn't want to talk to anyone else right now, save maybe Dean, but he intends to look Very Busy when his little brother wanders up and asks if they can talk.

Given that Valentine's voice is quiet and he shuffles his feet before asking, the facade's worked at least a little bit, but rather than scaring him off entirely like Cas wants, it just makes him ask again when Cas stays quiet for what probably constitutes too long: "Hey, Cas? I don't mean to be a bother or anything, brother, but I just want to… can we talk? Pretty please?"

"After your conduct the other night, we have nothing to discuss," Cas says, and looks up in time to see Valentine flinch like he's been slapped. Cas sighs, eyes the basket, which is, for some reason, filled with chocolate bars, fruit, and what looks like a fondue pot. "You realize that apology is more likely to go over well with Dean than with me, right? Dean's the chef in our apartment."

"What? Oh, I—you mean you thought _this_ was… Oh, no, brother, it's not like that at all…" Valentine's unsteady smile looks faker than all the times Anna ever apologized for running her mouth off at Pastor Adler. "This isn't from me, I mean. I did want to apologize for my conduct the other night, but I'm not the one who bought this for you? I just agreed to be the delivery boy for it."

He proffers the basket and, with a sigh, Cas takes it, sets it on the floor by his feet. At least his backpack isn't terribly heavy tonight, because carrying the basket home is likely to be… interesting. Or likely to involve making Corbett carry it on the grounds that Cas shouldn't be lifting too much, at the moment. Cas isn't sure which option sounds better, really, but he is certain that—"I didn't really hear an apology in there, by the way, Valentine."

Valentine huffs, but nods anyway. "I'm sorry for everything I said. I'm sorry for being emotionally manipulative and triggering on purpose. And I'm sorry for making this all harder on you than it already is? At least, I'm guessing it's already hard enough on you, just since… well, everything?"

"Apology not accepted yet," Cas tells him as gently as he can manage. "Which is nothing to do with it not being an acceptable apology and all to do with how… I need more time still before I can forgive you. And I'm not going to just forget what you said, either, because I want you to learn from it. Do you understand?" He pauses long enough for Valentine to nod and suppose that all of this makes sense, then says, bluntly, "So, if you aren't trying to apologize with this ridiculous gift basket, then… who is it from?"

Valentine just shakes his head and says, "I can't tell you, brother. I'm sorry, but I promised them I wouldn't. But, erm. One thing I would say is that you should be on the lookout for more presents coming your way. Maybe not more fondue pots exactly, but… presents."

On the one hand, Cas wants to ask what the Hell Valentine means by that—and why it has to be such a secret, who's sending him these gifts that he doesn't need. On the other hand, though, Cas very much wants his little brother to pull a disappearing act, so he nods, and he thanks Valentine for delivering the basket, and, picking up his tea again, he asks if Valentine wouldn't mind leaving now. And thankfully, he skitters away without putting up a fuss.


	3. Fifteen weeks, 3.

"More presents" turns out to be something of an understatement. On Wednesday, a box of Cas's favorite loose leaf teas shows up to the office while he's talking to Maggie about an upcoming lecture Dr. Visyak's giving. Cas might not know all of the details, he tells Maggie, looking up at her where she's sitting on his desk, but considering Dr. Visyak's research of late, into the art of medieval weaponry and its relation to hagiography, it's probably going to be amazing—which is when a short, squat man in a navy postal worker's uniform knocks on the door-frame.

He lets himself in and asks which one of them is Cassidy Milton, then hands over the box and leaves Cas wondering who on earth would know that he likes his green tea best when it's not in a bag. More importantly, who would know that and do something so exorbitant as order Cas a box of his favorite blends, all packaged so nicely, with two infusers included in the mix of things. Dean, of course, is the first person to come to mind—but on the other hand, Dean knows full well that Cas's procedure isn't going to be cheap, so Cas would hope that Dean wouldn't just run out and do something this expensive.

A similar scene happens on Thursday, when Cas and Bela are having lunch at the apartment. They're mostly quiet, air thick and heavy with the weight of things that they should probably talk about—like how Cas has a date for the procedure now, and how despite himself he wants to know the fetuses' sexes since it's been long enough for that, and how he hasn't told Dean about the second thing, even though they're supposed to be talking about things more openly than they have been. Instead of talking about the things that matter, Bela entertains Cas's desire to keep things light and lets him talk about anything else, everything else.

He's in the middle of prodding at his Pad Cashew and telling her things about Dr. Visyak's research when there's a knock on the door. Behind it stands a guy in UPS brown, carrying a box. The return address is for Gabriel's apartment, but there's no name to go with it, and Gabriel's not really the random gift-sending sort. Cas takes the box back to the kitchen table, but doesn't open it until Bela won't stop nudging her toes into his calf, won't stop pointedly arching her eyebrow at him. Inside, Cas finds four volumes of poetry, two Andrea Gibson, one Richard Siken, and one Shel Silverstein, all stacked on top of each other and bound together with a red ribbon.

Friday has two deliveries, in total: one to the office (a basket containing series three of _Doctor Who_ , a few boxes of bag tea, a book of coupons for local takeout places, and a container of mint lip-balm), and one to the apartment (another basket, and this one has in it two bottles of boysenberry body wash and one of similarly-scented bubble bath). The second shows up while Cas, Sam, and Jessica are waiting for Dean to get home with dinner, and when he brings it back into the kitchen, Cas can't help giving Sam a long, tired look—one that makes Sam furrow his brow, probably wondering what he did to make Cas look at him like that.

"Sam, has Dean been talking to you about this?" Cas says, once he's set the basket down by the sofa. "Does he think he screwed up or something? Because if so, I would've hoped that he'd know he doesn't need to win me over with things. Especially not when we're going to need the money for… well. The procedure."

Without thinking about it, Cas drops his hand to his stomach and rests his palm across the place where it's fullest. Does it mean anything that talking about this mess has gotten harder? He said _abortion_ and _I'm planning to have an abortion_ just fine on Tuesday night at group—well, if it means anything, it's probably just that Mother and Father's indoctrination is hard to shake, right? It doesn't mean that Cas is having second thoughts—he can't be having any second thoughts, not when he knows where the road of staying pregnant leads—and it doesn't mean that he's weak. It means that even making the right choice can feel complicated, sometimes, and that's assuming that it has any particular significance at all.

Whatever it means, if anything, Sam just shakes his head and gives Cas an odd, confused look. "Dean hasn't said anything about screwing up since he told me your therapist wants you two to be more open with each other," he says. "And he definitely hasn't said anything about money or the procedure or anything."

"Well, that's disappointing," Cas says, sighs, and sits down next to Jessica again. "If he'd been the one sending me all these presents, then at least I could've told him to stop."

"It could be one of your siblings, though, couldn't it?" Jessica says with a shrug. "I mean, even if you're basically estranged with some of them… buying someone presents seems like something you might think of as a pretty good way to break the ice after a while of not talking."

"Not an entirely questionable idea, but… my family isn't exactly the sort of family where we regularly trade gifts? And most of the siblings who would actually give me anything… well. It's complicated, but it isn't?"

Cas huffs and slouches in his seat, trying to accommodate his aching back. Either he sits up straight and has to deal with pain _and_ his belly resting on his lap, or he slumps like this and his back feels better, for all it means his stupid stomach pushes his t-shirt's hem up. Either way, Cas gets to lose to some degree or another, but at least slouching means that he doesn't have to be in too much twisting, nagging pain on top of being fat and bloated and only getting worse on both counts by the day. Hence the pain, Cas supposes: his back muscles have to accommodate his belly, at least until this nightmare is over and done.

"I already talk to most of the siblings who are likely to consider buying me presents often enough that they probably wouldn't bother," he says, fussing with his shirt and trying to get it back into place. "And if it's one of the siblings that I don't talk to that regularly, then… I just wish I knew which one. Their identity would provide an excellent clue as to their motivations."


	4. Sixteen weeks.

Cas means to bring the subject up with Dean as soon as possible, but in fairness to himself, it's not really his fault that he doesn't get around to it. Everything's so tumultuous right now—between the pregnancy itself, and scheduling the procedure, and trying to remind himself that it's okay and he can call it what it is, an abortion—so Cas can't blame himself for forgetting something that he wants to do. He'd forget his head if it weren't attached to his shoulders right now.

Never mind how he's still not sure who's sending him presents, since it isn't Dean. Cas wants to thank them, whoever they are, but what is he supposed to do? Put up a card on the door to his and Dean's apartment and just hope that the person—or maybe even people, a staggering thought—sees it? Cas can't even begin to imagine how that would work out, but he can't see it going particularly well. There's almost no chance of the intended recipient seeing it, and aside from that, Cas wouldn't know what to write in it. _Thank you for the generous gifts, but you really don't need to do this anymore_?

Yes, because that's not ridiculously rude or any kind of potentially offensive. Because that wouldn't scare whoever's sending the gifts off and keep Cas from finding out who they are.

He's alone in the office, tapping out an email to the department head on Dr. Visyak's behalf, when the answer finally comes and drops into his lap. There's a knock on the door and he perks up—and sees her standing there like there's nothing odd about this at all. She leans against the doorway in a fluid, serpentine motion, wearing a grey t-shirt, blue button-up, and a tiny smile—one that says, clearly even to Cas, _I know it's been a while, little brother, but I didn't actually forget you_. She's wearing her dirty blonde hair shorter than Cas remembers it being and artfully tousled, probably very much on purpose, carefully crafted just like everything about her appearance, from the tears in her jeans down to the splotchy dirt on her boots.

Behind her, Lila Beth Fremont twirls a set of keys around on her finger and shoots Cas a toothy grin, which is probably, on some level, meant to be reassuring. Mostly, it looks like she could swallow him whole, pregnant belly and all, and like she probably wants to try that on for size, just to be sure that she can.

And Cas feels like he should have something poignant to say—because he's pretty sure that you're supposed to have something deep or meaningful to say upon seeing your older sister for the first time in slightly over two years—but all that he comes up with is blinking at her for a moment and whispering, "Hello, Luci… Are you going to come in?"

"I wasn't sure I'd be welcome," she says, slithering into the office and coming over to sit down on Cas's desk. "After all, I'm bothering you at work, and we didn't exactly part on good terms, did we?"

Cas shrugs and supposes that they didn't. "You accused me of trying to crawl back in the closet and of overly toeing Mother and Father's line because I didn't want Dean to meet our parents. And of being a sell-out because I let them pay for my undergraduate degree."

"And you shouted—in the middle of a very nice restaurant, I might add—that I didn't really know you anyway because we don't talk often enough to have a relationship." Luci's smile seeps out across her face like an oil spill, curling up her lips and flashing Cas the barest hint of her teeth. "I think it's safe to say that both of us said things that we regret?"

"Well, I was right about the danger of introducing Dean to Mother and Father. He met them for Thanksgiving and probably only managed not to kill them both because Anna was there to stay his hand. But I do regret hurting your feelings."

So much for touching reunions—not that Cas is particularly adept at doing anything touching—but he supposes that maybe his big sister wanted this to go somewhat differently. What she failed to account for, in all likelihood, was the fact that Cas wouldn't have any idea what she's doing here instead of in Toronto, or what she thinks she wants from him. Cas wrinkles his nose up at Luci, which doesn't really make anything about her presence here make more sense, and with a sigh, he just gives up and asks, "Why are you bothering me at work in the first place?"

Luci shrugs back at him and says that she has her reasons for doing what she does, little brother, same as anybody. "But as to why I'm here? You can thank Gabriel, who—unlike you and Michael and Rachel and Anna and Valentine—actually keeps in touch with me outside of holidays. He called after your little dinner party and told me about your situation? The little predicaments cooking in your uterus?"

As though her meaning needs any further clarification, Luci points down at Cas's stomach, right at where it strains the buttons of his largest work shirt. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat and tugs at the fabric, which doesn't succeed in hiding him any—not that he particularly expects it to, but it would be nice to be able to conceal his current state a bit more than he's able. And at this display, Luci's smile softens—not enough that anyone who didn't know her would notice, but enough that Cas can make it out—and she pats the desk and shakes her head. She casts a long look over to Lila Beth, and it probably means something to the both of them, but what that could be, Cas can't decipher. Lila Beth raises both eyebrows as if to say that this was all Luci's idea in the first place.

"I'm not here to ask anything much from you, Cas," Luci says, combing a hand back through her hair. "I just want to take you out to lunch, if you want. That's it and nothing more—just lunch, without any expectations or whatever."

*******

Lunch is pretty quiet, not least because there are other people around, so Cas can hardly go and cause a scene. He's not sure how much he really wants to cause a scene and how much of that is just him clawing at his own skin in general, only the malaise that grows more and more powerful with every day that Cas stays pregnant.

Not that there's anything particularly _just_ or _only_ about those feelings, but as Cas says to Luci over lunch, it's not his intention to devalue how he's feeling; he's only acknowledging that he's getting more and more accustomed to them hanging around and making everything he does more difficult. He's getting more and more used to those feelings hanging around—they don't surprise him anymore, at least, and it doesn't frustrate him quite so much when he wakes up feeling like his body isn't really his, like he's a stranger in his own skin.

Luci frowns at that confession, furrows her brow and slouches a bit in her seat, gives Cas a long look before she tells him, "That's not something that you should be getting accustomed to, little brother. I don't care how long you've been pregnant or how long you have to wait to get the Big A—that is not something that you should be getting accustomed to at _all_."

Cas huffs and shakes his head. "It's less that I'm really getting used to it and more that I'm just _tired_ of trying to fight it as much as I have?" he explains, dropping his hands to the hem of his shirt and tugging on it again. It accomplishes nothing, really, but it soothes his nerves a little. "Trying to fight off the dysphoria was exhausting enough before I got pregnant, but now it's just impossible because nothing I've tried really helps me feel right in my body… So I've familiarized myself with how that sensation feels."

Luci huffs right back at him and says that just because Cas is tired of fighting doesn't mean that he should have to get used to feeling like nothing makes his body right—and she has a point, Cas knows she does, but the way that she's expressing her distaste for his situation grates on his nerves. He can't even put his finger on what it is about the way she's speaking, the way she's sitting, the way that she's handling everything—but he's just going to chalk it up to the way that Luci turns all things that she encounters into some sort of excuse to be combative, some reason to fight with someone about something—anything, as long as it's emotionally charged.

There's nothing and no one to fight, in Cas's scenario, not even Michael or their parents. There's just a whole lot of mess and a week-and-a-half until Cas's appointment to clean it up.

So, he tries to keep the conversation limited to small talk, tries to keep Luci from having more reason to get her hackles up—which means strategically avoiding the subject of himself. He asks about Toronto, he asks about Luci's and Lila Beth's research and what conferences they've been to lately, he asks Lila Beth about a paper of hers he read—the one about queer readings and transformative works in the Austen fandom. He asks why Luci sent all the presents in the first place ("Because I felt like it," she explains, "because I thought you could probably use some self-care tools"). Cas does everything he can to stay in the position of question-asker, barely giving them time to breathe between answers before throwing out some new inquiry.

He should probably expect them to get tired of this treatment—but he still wrinkles his nose in confusion when Lila Beth excuses herself. He watches her as she walks back to the restroom, and once she disappears, before he can think to stop himself, he looks back to Luci and spits out, "Why are you _really_ here, sister? It's not that… I'm not ungrateful for lunch, and I want to have a relationship with you, too, I guess, but… what are you _really_ doing here?"

"You're my brother, Cas," she tells him, voice as gentle as she ever gets. "I don't care what's happened between us before—I love our siblings, but even the most reliable ones out of all of them are pretty spotty. Gabriel's flighty, Anna can lose sight of the little things in her causes sometimes, Rachel's no good at improvising, and judging from what Gabriel told me about your dinner party, Valentine and Balthazar leave a lot to be desired, albeit for different reasons… I couldn't just leave you here with an admittedly shaky support system, could I?"

Cas sighs and curls in on himself, prods his Pad Thai with his fork and spears at one of the cubes of tofu. "You could've done what Michael's done—you could've just stayed out of everything and washed your hands of me."

Luci shrugs and simply says, "Perhaps. But I didn't want to. And the only thing I'm getting out of this? Is the ability to be there for my little brother when he needs someone."


	5. Sixteen weeks, 2.

"Well, now that we've gotten the procedure scheduled, it's really just a simple matter of waiting for my turn at the clinic."

They're getting their traditional after-group tea when Cas says this, and in response, Meg gives him a Look as though he's just suggested that pineapples can tap-dance or something equally ridiculous. Corbett, for his part, looks oddly morose—he's furrowing his brow and hunching his shoulders, sinking into the chair in a way that makes Cas want to scream at him that this isn't his abortion to be feeling anything about and that it's not his place to insist that Cas feel more than he does about the situation—but Meg's expression is entirely resolute, just one eyebrow arched and her arms folded over her chest.

"Clarence," she says far too easily. "It's not that I'm not thrilled you've apparently come to terms with this little predicament that you're in. It's just that I know you, and I don't trust it for a second. You're feeling something more about this. I know it."

Cas shrugs and shakes his head, but doesn't expect for a minute that this will actually throw Meg off the trail. "I'm fine with what's happening," he says and drops his hand to his stomach, brushes his fingertips over where it's fullest, roundest. "I am pregnant and I don't want to be anymore. I'm going to get it taken care of—because thankfully, it's not too late. It's that simple. I don't understand what else I'm supposed to be feeling about this. I don't… What do you want me to say? I don't understand what you want from me."

It's a lie, and it's probably a bad one. Cas knows it, and Meg seems to realize it, too—she bristles, and sighs, and keeps staring at him until he gets a sick and guilty twisting in the pit of his stomach. Or maybe that's just the twins moving around—Cas has felt them on and off, ever since his lunch with Luci.

But there's nothing going on underneath his hand right now, and the only thing he feels in his stomach is this feeling of it trying to wrap up around itself. This feeling that he's gone and gotten caught with his hand in the cookie jar, or like he's trying to lie to Mother, even knowing that she disapproves of all the things he is and that she always misgenders him and that she'll never see him as anything but her wayward daughter. He could accept the wayward moniker, if only she'd get his gender right.

Cas swallows thickly—why is his mind even going to these kinds of places now? Because he's felt these light, fluttering sensations in his uterus—these little gut-bubble things that pop up and kick at him and that a cursory Google search said were definitely the babies moving—and because he's felt them on and off all week? Because, maybe, all of that means something more than Cas is letting himself believe?

But, surely, that's ridiculous—these motions don't mean anything, not when they're stacked up against the bigger picture, the bigger picture where the knives in the kitchen look more and more appealing every day, the bigger picture where Cas doesn't even trust himself to be alone. He's even thought about what he'd say to Dean, what he'd say to Anna and Bela and everyone else who's pulling for him to make it through this Hell and get back to his normal life eventually.

He'd apologize, of course, but Cas isn't sure he'd really have it in him to be sorry, considering the bone-deep skin-crawl that he's had following him everywhere since before he even knew that he was pregnant. As it stands, though, he has Meg still giving him that look, like she's waiting for him to say something more—but when he gets it in his head to tell her to shut up and stop demanding that he express feelings that he _doesn't have_ , Cas looks up from his stomach and the words die in his throat.

After weeks of always feeling warm—like he's wrapped up in a blanket that he can't shuck off—Cas feels a chill shock down his spine, all from the sight of the tall, broad-shouldered man in the well-tailored suit.

For a moment, Cas thinks that maybe his eldest sibling won't want anything to do with him—maybe they'll keep up with the fact that they haven't spoken since last summer—but Michael doesn't waste any time in making his way over to the sofa. Meg sits up straighter and so does Corbett, but Cas just tries to burrow back into the cushions, as though this will actually manage to hide him from his brother, as though he can escape out through the back and make a run for it.

He doesn't know what he'd be running from, since all Michael does is stand there, hands folded up expectantly, eyes trained on Cas, on Cas's fat, pregnant stomach…

"Hello, Cassidy," he says—and just like that, from out of nowhere, Cas gets the courage to look him in the eye. As always, Michael is—and there isn't another word that really captures him— _slick_ , which probably goes hand-in-hand with being a lawyer. His thick black hair is parted with just the right amount of care to make it look absolutely careless, with a knife's edge gleam from whatever he uses to keep it in place, and his hazel eyes catch the light like broken glass. All made up of slippery sheen, he smiles like an oil spill, holding out his hand as though he actually expects Cas to shake it. Like he actually expects Cas to be happy to see him.

"You actually got my name right," Cas says with a huff and stares up at Michael, glances at his hand but doesn't take it. "Which means that either I've done something wrong, or you want me to do something for you—so, which is it?"

Something crosses Michael's face as he sighs and shoves his hand into his pocket, and he looks, for a moment, like he's kind of hurt. "It can't possibly be that I'm just trying to do better by you, little brother? I know we've had our disagreements in the past—"

"Our _disagreements_?" Cas can't help but laugh at that, even if the harsh, discordant sound makes him feel vaguely guilty—on the off-chance that Michael is actually attempting to reach out to him, he'll probably feel worse, but even so—"I hardly think that we can call what's gone on between us _disagreements_. The first time I met Amanda, you introduced me to her as, 'my sister, Cassandra, who thinks she is a man.'"

"I really don't think that's _exactly_ what I said, Cas—"

"It might as well be, because that's how I remember it happening. And it wouldn't exactly be out of character for you—ever since I came out, you've handled it badly. So you'll forgive me if maybe you're not the person I want to see right now. Or ever."

Michael's other hand slips into its pocket and he purses his lips, glances over to the corner and then back to Cas. "I heard about your situation," he says with a nod toward Cas's belly. "Gabriel told me about it after you had your dinner party—"

"Oh my _God_ —" Groaning, not even remotely trying not to roll his eyes, Cas knocks his head back into the cushion. "First, Luci and now _you_? Is there anybody that Gabriel _hasn't_ told about how Dean knocked me up?"

"Our parents, as far as I know."

"Well, that's some consolation. I'd have to wring his neck if he told them—"

"That might be going a bit too far, don't you think?"

"Don't you think that you're hardly in a place where you can criticize me for going too far with our siblings?" Idly, Cas rubs his hand up and down his stomach—he hates the curve that he traces his fingers over, and he hates the way his belly has to nudge up against his lap, and he hates absolutely everything about this situation. He just likes the feeling of his sweater-vest's fabric all warm and soft underneath his hand. Besides, the gentle motion settles his stomach somewhat. "I mean, you only refuse to acknowledge Luci because she refuses to let you call her Samuel or your brother."

"The situation between me and our sister is much more complicated than that, Cas," Michael says, and sighs again, and it sounds heavier than the one before it—somehow, it sounds more tired. "I'm also not here to talk to you about Luci, or to talk about why she and I haven't exactly kissed and made up yet. I'm not here to talk about Gabriel, either, though frankly, we might need to talk about Gabriel at some point. I'm here to talk about you."

Cas shrugs and puts on his best expression of wide-eyed innocence. "What _about_ me?"

"What are you planning to do about your pregnancy, Cas? Children would derail the path to your PhD, eat up money that you and Dean don't have—but they don't need to. Amanda and I would be happy to adopt them, and to allow you to stay in their lives as much as you'd like…" Michael pauses. Heaves a deep breath. Through the fabric of his trousers, it's obvious that he's curled both hands into tight fists, probably white-knuckled and everything. "I know you have no reason to trust me about this, little brother, but we'd give them a good home. We'd be better parents than Mother and Father ever were to us…"

And Michael looks so earnest as he says this—his eyes are wide and his brow knotted up—that Cas actually believes him. He really does believe that Michael and Amanda would make good parents.

Cas tries, but he can't hold eye contact with Michael—he can't hold eye contact with Meg or Corbett, either, when he tries to look at them instead. He can only manage to look down at his stomach, which doesn't help the way his heart flutters around his chest or the way something—probably one of the babies, or maybe even both of them—quivers and bubbles around in his gut. They shouldn't be strong enough to really be kicking him, yet—at least, Cas doesn't think they should be. Which usually makes it easier to think about what he's going to do—about what he needs to do—but right now, it doesn't make it any easier for Cas to look back up at Michael.

It doesn't make it any easier to tell him, "That's assuming that I'm intending to see this pregnancy through to the end, Michael."

Michael flinches as though he's been smacked. He blinks at Cas and says, "What—but why wouldn't you see it through?"

At least Michael's not making Cas explain himself because he wants to put a stop to this. At least he's only asking this question out of ignorance. Cas takes several deep, slow breaths and drops his free hand to his stomach, as though putting both of them there might make his belly less noticeable. "Because I _can't_ see it through, _brother_. Because Dean is getting very close to hiding all the knives in our kitchen because he doesn't know what might happen to me if I know where they are. Because I don't honestly know—because I can't honestly say—what's going to happen if I'm around them for too long, either. Because I…"

Cas combs a hand back through his hair and tries not to sigh. "Because the dysphoria of this pregnancy is literally killing me. And if it's a choice between myself and these… strange little people I've never met, who wouldn't even be able to survive on their own, yet? Michael, I _need_ to choose myself. If I choose them, then I'm probably going to die."

Michael gives Cas a long look, probably searching his brain for anything that he can say—but instead of saying anything, he pulls his checkbook out of his pocket. He asks how much the procedure's going to cost, then hands Cas a check for five-thousand dollars anyway. For a moment, it's all Cas can do to stare at the little slip of paper in his hands—it's almost asking too much for him to stare up at Michael as he whispers, "But why?"

And all Michael does is shrug. "Because you're my brother, Cassidy," he says. "Because abortion might not be what I'd ever choose, but… I also don't have a uterus, so what do I know? And if your insurance covers the procedure… spend the money on something nice for yourself. I don't care what it is, just… take care of yourself, little brother."


	6. Seventeen weeks, 1.

"This is a bad idea."

Cas sighs and tugs on the hem of Dean's old Eye of the Tiger t-shirt, which, despite being Dean's and despite being just slightly too big for Cas under normal circumstances, barely manages to contain his pregnant belly. Even after he tugs it back into place, the hem insists on riding up, exposing a little strip of stretch-marked skin. He looks out the windshield of Bela's precious Mercedes CLK, stares out at the grey sheets of rain and the clinic's door—he can't believe he's here and he can't believe he's going to do this. He can't believe his fingers twining up in the t-shirt's fabric.

He can't believe that any of this is real, but then again, everything's been some waking nightmare since the pregnancy test—Cas is still half-convinced that he might wake up and have all of this be some crazy dream. Never mind how he's going behind Dean's back to see this done, which doesn't exactly have a good history for them. It more has a history of Cas skipping meals and making himself throw up—and he has every intention of telling Dean about it later, but he can't imagine that Dean's going to be particularly pleased with Cas right now. Cas isn't entirely sure he'd blame Dean, either.

And while he's staring up at the clinic, while he's letting the radio answer Bela with the sound of Nina Simone singing, "Pirate Jenny," Bela repeats herself, "This is a bad idea."

"Yes, Bela," Cas mutters, fussing with Dean's shirt some more, "you've said as much several times already."

Bela rolls her eyes, arches a perfectly sculpted brow at him. "And that somehow makes me any less right about it being a _bad idea_?"

"Yes. Yes, it does." Or maybe it doesn't—maybe it really, really doesn't, because maybe Bela has a more than fair point in her objections—but Cas doesn't take his hand off of his stomach, and Cas doesn't see the point in letting her think that he's having any second thoughts about why they're here, about why she's driven him here on their day off, a good fifteen minutes early for his appointment. "I'm going to go through with this, Bela… I need to go through with this."

"Yes, Cas, because you really _need_ a reason to self-flagellate about the abortion you're having. More than you've already been self-flagellating, anyway." When he snaps his head around to look at her, Bela just shrugs as if to say, _what do you want from me, I'm just being honest_ —she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and tells him, "Oh, yes, I'm quite aware that you've been beating yourself up about this—Dean is, too, by the way. You're not exactly subtle when you start emotionally dragging yourself through the mud."

"It's just another ultrasound, Bela," Cas points out as though this settles the matter—because it really should, as far as he's concerned—because there's absolutely nothing self-abusive about an ultrasound. "All I want to do is figure out the babies' sexes—is that really so terrible?"

"Well, we're doing this while your boyfriend and Anna are at work and thus, can't object to it. You haven't told Dean anything about this, last I heard anything about him from you. And you've been dead quiet on the whole drive over here, which is usually what you do when you're having second thoughts about something. So, you tell me, Cas: is this bad idea really so terrible?"

Cas slouches in his seat, even if this makes his back ache and his belly stick out even further than it already does. "I'm not going to accept any of your criticism unless it's double-spaced, in proper Chicago style with at least seven sources."

For a moment, Bela looks like she could throttle him—and before she gets a chance, from the backseat, Rachel pipes up, "Can they even determine the sexes this early? I read online that they can't figure that out until twenty weeks—and that'd be cutting it too close to when you can't get an abortion, so I—"

"With the right technology, they can determine a fetus's sex as early as twelve or thirteen weeks, Sweetie," Bela tells her. "Which isn't any justification for coming out here and going through with this, for the record, Cas. Because this is still a bad idea."

"Maybe it is," Cas says with a huff, dropping his hand down to the door handle. "But it's my bad idea—and if it's a mistake, then it's my mistake to make."

*******

The appointment, for the most part, is a cold blur—Cas fills out the forms in a freezing little waiting room and wishes he could draw his jacket tighter around himself without being reminded of how it doesn't fit him right at the moment. And it won't fit him right until Thursday, when he'll come back here for the second stage of the procedure.

Dilation and evacuation—that's what the receptionist called it when he scheduled it, and the only thing that really matters to Cas is that it's going to take two days of his life to clean up this mess that he shouldn't even be stuck in.

The exam room feels, if anything, colder than the waiting room and it makes Cas reconsider his decision not to wear a sweater. Not that he can do anything about it, because his sweaters are all at home—but as he slumps back on the table and waits for the doctor, waits for the gel to hit his stomach and the images to show up on the little screen.

Cas has doubted himself before now—he's doubted his decision not to keep the babies—but he's never doubted it more than when he sees the pictures of the two fetuses, moving their little limbs. At least, he's never doubted it more than that until Doctor Roberts chirps, "So, it looks like you'll be having two little girls, Mister Milton."

"I'm actually not planning to see this pregnancy to term," Cas says. He doesn't have the heart to point out that the children's anatomy doesn't necessarily mean that they'll be girls—he just thanks her, and says that yes, he'd like a DVD of the procedure.


	7. Seventeen weeks, 2.

On the drive back to the apartment, Cas stays quiet—he tells Bela and Rachel about the results of the ultrasound, but he doesn't mention the DVD kicking around in his messenger bag, and he doesn't mention anything more than the barest of the bare minimum. It's almost like he's playing spies, like the information can only be shared on a need-to-know basis, and since Bela and Rachel don't need to know… well, then, Cas is under no obligation to share the details with them.

Or with anyone, he supposes—but especially not with Bela and Rachel—especially not considering that he doesn't want to talk to them about anything.

Which makes his stomach twist around with the slightest hint of guilt, because maybe he should tell them something—maybe he should tell them how he feels at the moment—but on the other hand, it's really not all that important. It's not really all that important that, when Cas slouches against the passenger side door and closes his eyes, he thinks about sharp objects and the scars on the insides of his arms and whether or not adding a few new ones might not take the edge off of the unfortunate situation that he calls his life.

Bela would probably disagree. Judging from how she insists on walking him up to the apartment, she'd say something like how Cas should be telling somebody, anybody, whether it's her or Dean or Anna or anyone—because his feelings matter, and his feelings are valid, and people would worry about him and be upset if anything were to happen.

Not that Cas feels particularly suicidal, at the moment. Not that he's eyeing the knives or thinking about the contents of medicine cabinet as he lets Bela hug him and hugs her in return, as he listens to her tell him to call her if he starts getting any self-destructive inklings. Any notions that hurting himself might make everything feel any kind of better—which he doesn't think he will.

He doesn't think that he will because, once Bela leaves, there's not a lot that Cas really feels like doing—hurting himself or otherwise, nothing sounds like a good idea. He makes himself a sandwich, because he needs to eat something for lunch, but eating it's a slow process. Drinking his milk is a slower one, and when he goes to lie down on the sofa, Cas leaves a little bit of it behind in the glass. If only he could just pause the world and take a break, get some feeling other than the one he has, the sensation that he's trying to move his limbs through molasses.

He loses track of time on the couch, just staring at the ceiling and wondering at all kinds of nothing in particular, running his hand all up and down his swollen stomach, feeling those exploding popcorn gut-bubbles of the babies moving around, beating against his palm although they don't mean to—there's no conscious intent behind the motions, Cas silently reminds himself, and it's impossible for there to be any. It's just some accident that he's feeling them.

He tries to blank out his mind—he tries to close his eyes and just focus on his breathing, the way he learned to meditate in the inpatient clinic—but it never really works. Cas's thoughts still wander, and his mind still takes him to places that, for all kinds of reasons, he'd rather not visit. Like baby names, and whether Michael and Amanda would even let Cas name the children, and family trips to Disney World. Nothing particularly bad, on its own—but things that make Cas's heart sink and writhe around his chest.

Cas is still on the sofa when he hears the door open, when he hears Dean tromp in and start toeing out of his shoes—Dean calls out for him and although it's a struggle, although maneuvering with his belly gives him some difficulty, Cas sits up and blinks at him. He's half-tempted to grab at Dean by way of beckoning him over to the couch, but even though he doesn't, Dean seems to get the message. He comes over and kisses Cas's forehead, right around the hairline, says that he'll be right back—he just needs to get a shower first, really quick.

Dean makes good on that promise of handling himself quickly and when he comes back, Cas lies down again, puts his head in Dean's lap and lets Dean card his fingers back through his hair. He sighs, angling his head around so Dean can get the best angle for combing over his scalp, and for all he's somewhat more contented now, Cas never moves his hands off of his belly. He could reach for Dean's wrist or squeeze Dean's knee, but he keeps both hands over his tummy, idly rubbing at himself, nudging the hem of Dean's t-shirt up over his belly's upper curve so he can rest his hands on skin.

The babies' movements have died down for now, but touching his stomach settles his nerves somewhat. He doesn't even know why or how that would work—he hates how big he's gotten already (if seventeen weeks can really be called, "already" when it's been long enough for Cas's preferences) and he hates the stretch-marks striping up and down his skin. He hates everything about his belly, but touching it makes him feel… sort of better. More grounded. More stable and less like it might not be a bad idea to cut himself, just to see what happens.

(Even though he knows from past experience what would happen—even though he knows what he'd see and what he'd feel—this is how he couches these urges to himself. Experimentation. Observation. Pointless curiosity.)

"So, what's on your mind tonight, Pretty Boy?" Dean says quietly, when they've been silent at each other for long enough that Cas has, once again, gone and lost track of time. Cas blinks up at Dean and sighs, shrugs, and makes Dean go on, "No, I'm serious—I can tell you're thinking about something, so spill it."

"It's less that I'm thinking about something and more that I'm thinking about everything, Dean." Brushing one finger over his bellybutton, Cas turns his head and nuzzles at Dean's leg—he splays both hands over his stomach and squeezes it. He has no reason not to trust Dean with what he's feeling—but that doesn't stop Cas from feeling a hot twist of guilt as he says, "I'm wondering if I can really go through with the procedure after all—if it's really the right thing for us… Well, for me, mostly. But also for us. Michael and Amanda's offer is probably still on the table, and—"

"And we've talked about all of that before. And we decided that you staying alive is more important than how much I want a family, and how much Michael and Amanda want kids, and… pretty much everything else, remember? Call it personal bias, but I'm pretty partial to you being alive, myself."

"Of course I remember—but it isn't easy to forget years of being raised to think that abortion constitutes a murder." With a shrug, Cas curls his legs up—he swallows thickly as the gut-bubbles start up again, and before he can think to stop himself, he grabs at Dean's wrist. Pulls Dean's hand over and puts it on his stomach—he blinks up at Dean's illegible expression, at some mix of wide-eyed wonder and utter horror—which doesn't exactly make Cas feel any better about any of this, much less what he's thinking right now.

 _Because I really needed you to make me feel like even more of a freak_ , he thinks as he arches an eyebrow up at Dean. _Thank you for that, boyfriend. Thank you very much._

And sighing, he says, "I've been feeling them like that for almost two weeks now, Dean. They're getting stronger, too. And I can't… It's not that I want to keep up with all the problems I've had? It's not that I enjoy anything about the suicidal ideation, or the dysphoria—but I just don't know what to do. I want someone to tell me what to do."

"Well, there's the rub, isn't it?" Dean points out, and gently squeezes Cas's tummy. "Even if someone could tell you what to do, you probably wouldn't do it exactly like they told you to do it—and you probably wouldn't feel any better about any of it if you didn't make the decision yourself."

"I know," Cas says, curling a hand around tighter Dean's wrist, leaving the other one on his stomach. He heaves a deep breath, feeling his gut rise and fall. He swallows thickly and goes on, "But I don't know that any decision I make on my own will make me feel better, either. I don't—I plan on having the abortion, still. But this doesn't mean that I can't have conflicted feelings about that fact."

"Your feelings can be as conflicted as anything," Dean says. "And I'll smack around anybody who tries to tell you how you're supposed to feel."


	8. Seventeen weeks, 3.

There are two appointments that make up the procedure, just as there are two components to its title. Dilation of the cervix, followed on Thursday morning by the evacuation of the fetal tissue—as he waits for the general anesthesia to put him under, Cas can't stop touching his stomach, can't stop worrying his hands over the curve. It might not be there for much longer and he can't deny he's gotten used to it. Change is never easy, but if it's for the better… If it's to save Cas's life, and since it is…

On the forms, Cas doesn't check the box that says he wants to save the fetal remains for religious purposes. Even if he wanted to use Michael's money on burying them, he doesn't see the point. It would only drag this out and serve to remind him of these four months that he'd just as soon forget.

That's why he opts for the general anesthesia, too. The doctor tells him, with a sticky-sweet kindness, that he doesn't need to go all the way under, that this will carry its own set of complications and potential side-effects not to mention a prolonged recovery time, that even with twins, they could just anesthetize the region around Cas's cervix and have everything about the procedure be as pain-free as possible. They could make him perfectly comfortable without knocking him out—and she seems to expect that these ideas will win Cas over.

But it's not about pain, and it's not about the recovery time or the complications—it never was about these things. Cas just doesn't want to remember anything about the process. Not the feeling of various instruments being inserted into him, and not the ceiling as he tries to look anywhere but at his physicians.

Since he can't forget—since these past four months are all but seared into his memory—Cas will settle with not remembering how they met their end.

*******

Dean's waiting for him in the recovery room, when Cas starts coming to—and before he can appreciate that fact, the feeling of emptiness distracts Cas, draws his attention down to his stomach. Both it and his breasts still feel bloated, but in the haze of medication, Cas supposes that he can't be too surprised. At least he should be able to bind his chest down properly, now—maybe not immediately, maybe he'll still need to give his breasts time to get less tender, but soon enough.

With thick, slow movements, he beckons Dean to come closer; Dean nods and scoots his chair up as close to Cas's bedside as he can get it. He curls a hand around Cas's wrist and, without a word, presses a kiss down onto the old, faded scars. Cas licks at his dry, chapped lips and manages to smile down at Dean. He wants to run his hand through Dean's hair, but there's no way he can, right now—his stomach feels too sore for him to reach over with his other hand, and since Dean's busy with the one closer to him…

"We're gonna have to make some calls, soon," Dean says, voice barely above a whisper. "Anna and Bela both wanted me to call them first once you woke up, and Luci said something about taking you out to lunch before she and Lila have to go back to Toronto."

"They can wait a while." Cas shrugs, nuzzles back into the pillows, awkwardly tries to brush his fingers down Dean's cheek. "Even if everything's going to be okay, now. They can still wait a while. And if they question it, then tell them I said so."


End file.
